


Lesser Evils

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Love/Hate, M/M, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-08 08:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: Given the choice between joining Sibyl, a lifetime locked away and forced service to the MWPSB, Shogo chooses the lesser evil and accepts work as an enforcer.Given the choice between letting the monster live and letting go of his meager scraps of morality,  Shinya has no idea what to make of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

“Rise and shine patients! It’s time to start our day with a smile!”

Shogo was going to find the speakers that played that monologue every morning and shoot them, each and every one, till sparks rained down from the electric work and burned the entire place to the ground. Every fucking morning at 6:45 it was the same shit, lights turning on in his cell, ears flooded with that aweful noise. He was suppose to be a cheerful, obedient patient and get up to wash himself, brush his teeth, change into a clean set of hospital clothes. By 7, a droid would be by to drop a breakfast tray through his slot.

Shogo Makishima was still curled tight in bed most days when this happened, and today was no exception. Getting out of bed required, somehow, extraordinarily more effort than he had to give these days. He was so painfully tired this morning, the lights overhead reaching through his eyelids, and he could feel the start of a headache already. Great, that's what he needed, a nice headache to go with his nausea. All those fucking medications were really starting to fuck with his system. Some nights he couldn't sleep at all, others he slept the entire day.

There it was, the hum of the droid, the clank of metal, and the cloying smell of breakfast filled his small room. He hated the food here. Nutritionally dense and devoid of flavor, breakfast was usually oatmeal, soymilk, scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice. Sometimes if his handlers felt adventurous there would be fruit on his tray which he might actually pick at, but they were hothouse grown, plucked too early and ripened artificially, lacking in color and flavor. He’d lost 12 pounds in the 4 weeks he’d been here already, and he was sure almost all of that had been muscle. He certainly didn’t have the energy to keep up on much of an exercise routine in his 10 by 12 foot hell. 

Drifting back into the comforting embrace of oblivion, it was probably, if habit served as reference, another half hour before one of /Them/ showed up.

Truly it wasn’t fair to refer to them as a total unit, one divisive entity. That was Sibyl itself, and oh yes, Sibyl was there, piloting the suit of a man known on the outside as Dr. Ogata, but who Shogo knew as brain 151, a particularly virulent asymptomatic brain. But 151 was not his only visitor. He was convinced at least two of his team of shrinks and quacks were real breathing men. The earnest ones, with sad eyes and a smile and a real voice of hope for Shogo’s recovery. Delusional little puppy dogs, their education a steadily controlled diet of stress care medications, mantras and an assurance that they were somehow Better than their patients. Prisoners. Same thing.

At least with 151 Shogo could expect a degree of honesty beneath the facade of healing. Honesty, and brutality, something he could recognize. 

Lucky (unlucky?) for him, today his attending physician was Dr. Seno, who honestly had maybe 3 years on Shogo, tops. He was stricter than some, but would probably have an excellent bedside manner to someone who actually needed it. Wasted energy on Shogo Makishima.

"Good morning Mr. Makishima, how about you see if you can get up and get something into your stomach?" Came his voice through the speaker, the doctor safe from the murderer through 4 inches of bulletproof plexiglass and the conviction that his own mental health was beyond contamination. Foolish.

Shogo pulled his stiff hospital sheets tighter around him, burrowing into his makeshift nest.

"Mr. Makishima," he tried again, gentle but unmoving, "you've already skipped 2 meals this week and you've been informed of what happens if you make it three."

Oh yes, an eating disorder evaluation to add to his stack of tests. Depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, anti social and psychopathy and sociopathy. Dr. Sena specialized in a field now called classic diagnostics, though once upon a time it would have been basic psychology. His job, from what Shogo could see, was to try and pin down what, exactly, had gone so very wrong in his brain. Hours upon hours of interviews, looking for child abuse, sexual abuse, killing kittens or starting fires. Shogo was nothing but honest, and delighted in seeing how even with supposedly proven techniques that once helped so many, Sibyl's cookie cutter guidelines didn't allow his doctor to get close enough to truly find a label for the monster.

Or maybe there just wasn't one, but that was too lonely a thought to harbor.

"Shogo-kun…"

He hated that more than anything. He was nearly 30, he hadn't been called -kun since he was 15, damnit, and he wondered if it was supposed to be something to humiliate him into acting like an adult or something to reach a frail and delicate mind. Either way it didn't apply to him.

"Shogo-kun, if you refuse another meal they'll have someone come in to look about having you tube fed, and you don't want that."

As much as he reviled being told what he did and he didn't want to do, he had to admit that yes, that sounded honestly dreadful, and he finally pressed himself up on one elbow to glare wearily at the glass.

"I'm tired," he said, trying to infuse those two words with as much malice and disgust and impatience as he could but well, he was in a hospital gown, his hair a mess, and he probably didn't look as imposing as he once did.

Indeed, Dr. Sena just nodded sympathetically, and tapped the glass, bringing up Shogo's information.

"You've slept 9 hours," he observed, and Shogo was as ever disturbed at how the sensors in the room could monitor even that. "I know it can be hard to get started, Shogo-kun, but about about you wash up and change, start on breakfast. I'll be back in 10 minutes to check on you."

And what choice did he have? In here, within this prison called a mental hospital under Sibyl's watchful eye, Shogo had lost the most precious thing in the world to him, his freedom.

)))(((

"How are you feeling today Mr. Makishima?"

"Delightful as always, Dr. Ogata, today there are 48 padded panels on my wall, same as the last 2,000 times ice counted." Bastard had denied him every request he'd put in for books, magazines, a fucking crossword puzzle, anything he could possibly have to keep his brain occupied. The intention was obviously to bore him to death, or to least bore him into oversharing and breaking in therapy. As to now their efforts had been hit and miss, but Shogo could feel it really starting to wear on him, loathe as he was to admit it. Sitting alone in his cell for hours each day without anything to do would make anyone go crazy, let alone someone like Shogo, so easily bored and desperate for stimulation. He really hoped Ogata/151 wouldn't want to make this an intense session, but at the same time, having him here to talk to was something to do, someone to spend time with.

It was...almost heartbreaking really. An asymptomatic brain like his own, like Toma. Someone who could have been a companion, had he not chosen to be part of the god like collective of Sibyl. Just another disappointment like everyone else.

Well. Almost everyone else. His Kougami had not let him down. 

He could be oh so cross with Kougami. After all, he was the reason he was in this cell to begin with. On his knees on that hill, Shogo awaited death, wondering if he would hear the splittest moment of gunfire before the bullet ended his life, if there would be any pain. Instead, Kougami had beat him over the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him out in a rather delightful mirroring of what Miss. Tsunemori had done a few months prior. Shinya Kougami carried him back to Sibyl in his very arms, unwilling to become a murderer. He could be disappointed in him if he wasn’t so surprised by the outcome. He had evaded Shogo’s best guesses, sure as anything that Shinya would become a murderer that winter evening.

Now here it was, mid summer. He wondered what Shinya was up to these days? Had he ran, as Shogo hoped he would? Had he been apprehended by his fellow hounds? Perhaps he lay in his own grave, even. Somehow, this option upset Shogo in ways he wasn't sure he understood-

“Are you feeling ill today, Makishima?” 151’s oh so natural voice reached him through his thoughts, and Shogo nodded vaguely, still quite distracted.

“I usually am these days. You have me on, what, 7 pills a day now?” he queried, his disgust hidden behind a light smile. Day after day he swallowed his medication, because it was better than being gassed and waking up strapped down with an IV in his arm, and day after day he was nauseous, crampy, cold, dizzy, sleepy, or unable to sleep at all.

151 didn’t seem to find this issuous at all. “Most of our patients are on many prescriptions, Mr. Makishima.”

“Sure, and are most of them on experimental pills that probably haven’t been tested on a human being before me?”

No answer, naturally. 151 just sat on that folding chair in the empty hallway, alone with Shogo. No cells across from him, none beside him. His cell alone was enclosed behind a steel door, to isolate him, as though the mere sight of this psychopath could infect the more worthy patients. 

“They’re to help you get better.”

“They’re to experiment on me because you don’t see me as worthy of being treated like a person. You’re Sibyl, after all. You’ve never seen me as a person”

)))(((

Shogo spent hours each day looking at the words of his file displayed on the screen. Makishima Shogo, born December 2, 2083. His height, his weight- 115 pounds now, the lowest he’d been in his adult life. Blood type and heart rate and pulse, his on-call doctor, his Psycho-Pass, his Hue. and yet none of it equaled Shogo. Somehow, even after 6 months in this Hell, he was sure that he was more than the sum of his parts.

)))(((

“We have an offer for you, Mr. Makishima.”

Shogo sat on the floor of his room, leaning heavily back against his bed and could barely summon the ability to turn his head lazily towards that voice. 151 stood at the glass, the hallway bright behind him. Far brighter, it seemed, than Shogos own room, and he squinted against the assault to his eyes.

"I'm not joining you," he answered automatically, tired of this relative game. "We've been over this a hundred times in the last 7 months."

"It's been 9 months, Mr. Makishima."

Perhaps had he not been so exhausted, Shogo could summon some amount of surprise at that, outrage, pain even, but he was devoid of feeling anymore. So little to do, so few people to talk to, nothing to read or plan or see. The only time he left this cell was for emergency appointments, which he was always sedated for. He just stopped caring quite some time ago.

151 shook his head, looking far more dire than Shogo usually saw.

"No, Mr. Makishima, that isn't what I've come to see you about today," this particular brain argued, trying to keep Shogos lilting gaze. "Pay attention now, because I think this will pique your interest greatly."

A stray moth could pique Shogo's interest for an hour these days, the bar was not very high. He struggled to sit up, giving some scrap of attention to 151.

"We have a unique offer for you, Mr. Makishima," the brain continued soberly. "Since you have been heretofore reluctant to join us among Sibyls rank, and seem quite solid on that decision, we have found another way where you can be useful and add a beneficial level of production to society."

"Are you going to use my body to fertilize the hyper oat crop?" He asked dryly, surprised he could muster even that level of wit.

"As poetic an end as that would be, no," his doctor said simply. "Rather, we are offering you a chance to live outside these walls by becoming an enforcer for the MWPSB.

Well, that was it then. Shogo Makishima, prophet to Japan, had finally broken. Surely his brain was ready to slide out through the hole in his skull and ooze down his spinal column. True insanity, because there was nothing short of delusion that could cause him to hear those words.

"Indeed. I wonder what pills you slipped into my little paper cup this morning then for me to hear such blasphemy?"

But 151 shook his head slowly.

"This is real, Makishima. We've been contemplating giving you this offer for some time now, " he explained. "It is a dreadful and sad waste for you to be locked in here for who knows how long, when a mind as sharp as yours should be utilized. You would be under the strictest controls of course, given a personal handler-"

How in depth and realistic his hallucinations were today. Far more entertaining than hearing Choe's voice call for him from nowhere, or seeing his mother and father's faces reflected back towards his in the glass. So many daydreams taking root in his sick mind, but this one was something remarkable.

"Sibyl would never give me an out like that," He told his delusion, as though mental illness could be reasoned with. "Besides, the Dominator is the harness and leash upon an enforcer hound, and their eyes are blind to me."

"They wouldn't be, Makishima. Not if we released you."

His first laugh in weeks, and it scraped his throat, dragging along the inside in such a way as to make him terribly miss the cold weight of his razor in his hand.

"Going to wave a magic wand and cure me of my ills then?" Shogo wanted to know, his head lazing firefly back against his mattress. "You haven't as of yet, so I doubt-"

"A false number, Shogo, read from a chip pierced beneath your skin and tissue," said 151 brusquely, obviously tired of being interrupted. "It would give you an above regulation Crime Coefficient, readable by a Dominator. Additionally, it would contain a tracker, one that no only logged your location down to the meter, but which would cause an explosion should you be more than a quarter mile away from your handler or the CID, whichever is applicable. Not a large one mind you, but enough to properly sever your spinal cord."

...ok, bow Shogo was listening, a bit of the fog lifting from his brain.

"....you can't be serious."

"But we are, Shogo. Sibyl as a collective has come to this decision. You'd work with Division 1, you have already made such good friends there haven't you?"

"...oh, now I understand," Shogo chuckled with relief, his world beginning to make sense again. “You’re trying a new scare tactic. You put me in with Division one, a group of people I might say who hate me more intensely than anyone else in this country, and soon I’ll be begging you to put me out of my misery!”

The fact that 151 did not immediately jump to deny this was somehow both comforting and troubling to Shogo. Moreso the fact that 151 did not withdraw his offer once Shogo cracked his little game.

“Mr. Makishima, I will say here right now. This offer will not be on the table after I leave. This is a one time deal. You say yes to working as an enforcer, and you’ll have more freedom. You’ll have a small apartment, books, your own clothes. Music, film, art, anything available for an enforcers leisure. It’s dangerous work, more so with the fact that your teammates won’t likely be out to save you if anything goes wrong. Most enforcers die young. Workplace hazard, you’ll understand, like Mr. Sasayama?”

“He made such a lovely sculpture.”

“He did indeed, Mr. Makishima. So, what will it be? A lifetime here in this room until you join us, or a few years tasting freedom through locked bars?”

...as though these were any reasonable choices at all to e man who had once run Japan from its dark and bloody underbelly.

)))(((

And here Makishima thought straight jackets were just props in old movies. Certainly he never expected to be wearing one. But then he never expected to be invited to work for the police, and yet here they were. It wasn't terribly uncomfortable actually, so far as straight jackets went, though he had no real point of comparison. Double lined canvas, thick, stiff and bulky, wrapped around his front, arms held tight around his own chest and belly. He’d counted; there were five wide leather bands closing behind him, two around his thighs to keep him from lifting it over his head. Honestly he admired its craftsmanship; even in his full strength he doubted severely he could wriggle out of this. He was a martial artist and quite flexible, but he was no Houdini.

“Alright, Mr. Makishima, you need to hold very still now,” Said the maybe-machine doctor behind him, a form he did not recognize but different wrappings could still hold the same secrets. “If you move too much, you could end up paralyzed, and then you really will be in a world of suffering won't you. I doubt the government will pay for a latent criminal to receive any form of expensive cyberization.”

“Fantastic,” Shogo groaned, wincing slightly at the slight pinch of a small needle piercing the skin of his neck, a local anesthetic to deaden the sight. Good, he thought, because while he had quite the pain tolerance, he’d seen the size of the second needle and he did not fancy feeling it plunge into the back of his neck, thank you very much.

Whatever brain or physician was doing this work was merciful, at least, because he did indeed wait until the sight was suitably numb. Shogo felt a rather intense pressure, a slight tug near the base of his skull, but there was no true pain. 

“You’ll likely have a headache on and off for the next 12 hours,” he warned simply, placing a wide bandage over the sight. “drink plenty of water, rest as soon as you're able to."

Shogo Makishima doubted very much that a restful orientation was going to be part of his plan, but he'd know soon enough. Not ten minutes later, he heard the hydraulic doors open behind him, two distinct sets of footsteps entering his exam room.

"Well I'll be god damned, you really did claw your way out of hell."

Shogos heart clenched in his chest, and suddenly the last 9 months seemed to be just a slip, a foot note in their tragic play, and he smiled to himself.

"Kougami," he breathed, savoring the shape of that name, curling in on himself in anticipation to see his face again.

"Makishima." His own tone was icy, so detached but so solid at the same time, and it sent a thrill straight through Shogo. "Been a while."

"It has, Kougami. Have they been treating you well since your little runaway from home?"

"I'm alive aren't I," he said, his voice rough, deep and beautiful to Shogos ears. "Course it seems like you can pull a hell of a lot in this system and only get a slap on the wrist."

Shogo let out a noise that could be called a derisive laugh, but such was so out of practice for him.

"Slap on the wrist, Kou? Do you think I've just been enjoying a cozy little bed and breakfast stay the last 9 months?"

"Well from what I can see you're still in one piece, Makishima, which is more than I can say if I'd gotten a hold of you."

"Oh but you did get ahold of me, Kou, I have a raised scar behind my ear from-"

"Alright, I'm not dealing with this back and forth between the two of you already."

Shogo smiled again, recognizing that little spitfire. There was a power in her voice, a confidence she had once lacked so severely.

"Inspector Tsunemori, a pleasure," Shogo murmured, finally gathering his motor skills together enough to turn his head to face his guests, willing his bound body to follow as well as it could, and ah, well, his appearance must have been more...striking...than he realized. Akane's warm eyes went wide, her lips parting. Even Kou, steady as stone, had a shadow across his face. Well. Shogo couldn't pretend he didn't revel in that attention, just the smallest bit. 9 months and he'd lost nearly 30 pounds. 9 months and the shortest parts of his silver hair ghosted past his jaw. 9 months thinned his face and put bruises beneath tired eyes, it cracked his lips and drained his color. He wondered, distantly, if the brokenness made him beautiful, at least to Kougami. He was not per se a man prone to vanity, but he enjoyed a clean face and well cut clothing, he was not blind to the lithe grace his body once had. Beauty was enticing, he knew his gold eyes and his pale hair were striking, he had used it to ensnare more than one plaything, but now he had his eyes set on only one, the hound, his Shinya.

Inspector Tsunemori was raised with her own grace, the social kind that bade her to show kindness and respect even to a mass murdering bioterrorist, And she locked her jaw up off the floor quickly, and strode over to stand her full petite form in front of Shogo Makishima, who took her dearest friend from her, who corrupted her beloved enforcer, who broke her division.

"Shogo Makishima," she said with a command that far outstretched her petite stance. "If it were up to me I would never have you employed in my Division." Ah, there was one answer. This command must have come from Kasei herself. "But if we must have you, I will be absolutely clear about your boundaries from the start.

"First and foremost, everyone employed on my Division will be armed at all times. Except you."

"I expect nothing less."

"Second, you will be held to stricter standards that other enforcers when it comes to commands. I say jump-"

"I skip the "how high" and simply leap off a cliff?" He suggests, smiling at the look of torn confusion on her face. Of course she would never insinuate such an unhealthy thing.

"...third, you will be placed on cases only when all other resources have been exhausted and we feel your use outweighs your risk. Otherwise you will earn your paycheck primarily through office and secretarial work."

...Shigo never thought there would be a day when he might look forward to office labor and writing emails and tending a coffee pot but at this point any mind of activity sounded like a reward 

"And finally, you will understand that any indication you're even thinking about taking any rebellious behavior and you will face harsh repercussions. The tracker in your neck-"

"Will kill me. I understand, inspector," Shogo said mildly with his most winning smile. "Trust me, I don't expect a long life on your leash, but a year outside these walls is preferable to 50 within them."

Akane and Shogo shared a look, one that held so much weight, the burden of their secret, knowledge of Sibyl.

"...alright, just one matter left to deal with, then. We are going to have you-"

"I'll do it." 

Well, Shogo wasn't sure what It was just yet but if Kougami was volunteering then he was all for it.

Akane looked ready to argue, peering over Shogo's shoulder, but quickly her face pinched, then relaxed, obviously deciding that whatever it was, wasn't worth a fight. She stepped aside to make room for Kougami, and Shogo looked up with eager eyes. 

Indeed, Shinya was as handsome as he remembered. Dark, rough, looking aged from stress in a way that reminded him somewhat of his belated Gu-Sung, but still young and fit. Grey eyes, like welded steel, bore into his own and he could only grin calmly back.

"Up," kougami barked. "Get on your knees, and I don't want any sick, lewd remarks about it either."

"How well you know me," Shogo purred, eager to kvey for once in his life. It was awkward moving in those restraints though, but he managed, lowering himself down onto the white tile floor without incident, peering up at Shinya from this most enjoyable angle. 

And then Shinya, never breaking eye contact with Shogo, reached beneath his blazer and unholstered his Dominator.

Shogo had been expecting this. He knew it was coming, but there hadn't been any way to prepare for the moment when it finally arrived. Intense turquoise light bathed his face from the barrel of the gun, gleaming off the iron and sparking Shinya's eyes up teal and chrome and for a passing moment, Shogo was frightened. Fear was not a feeling unknown to him, but it was an infrequent guest, and it sat awkward and uncomfortable in his belly. But that wave of nausea gave way easily to a radiant feeling of calm, acceptance, and even a single spark of joy. It would see him now, circuits reading circuits, a false number so much lower than what a murderes Psycho-Pass should honestly be, but one with his name attached. Finally, 21 years after She was born, Sibyl would see him, knowledge him, all through Shinya's eyes. Glad for it, Shogo eases forward, and lay his brow directly against the muzzle of the Dominator.

The blast hit him like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had often daydreamed about what the paralyzer would feel like, attributing to it a holy of electricity, but truly the shot itself brought no pain, only an intense feeling of rigidity and tension as his joints locked up. This too came to pass easily, and with resignation and acceptance, Shogo Makishima was unconscious before he even hit the floor.


	2. Home

Shogo Makishima, glorified secretary, did not have nearly the same ring to it as Shogo Makishima, downfall of Sibyl, but he was making the best of it. 10 hour shifts answering the phone, ferreting emails, making coffee, running hard drives or spare tablets from one department to the other. Humiliating menial work done under the scathing reproach of every employee. Well, nearly. There were a few enforcers, he could see it in their eyes, who weren't ready yet to crucify him. These few men and women were further gone than most, true criminals and not just the latent kind, who only wished they could get away with what Makishima had done.

...well. He was just glad that so far, a week in, he had not been beaten bloody. It would be far too easy, really, frail as he was, to bruise him up, slap him around, or worse, and it's not like most of them had any moral issue showing him a bad time. Still, it was a weight off his shoulders each day to finish his shift and return to his apartment. His home.

Home had meant many things to Shogo in 30 years. Home with Hayao and Megumi, a pair of loving parents raising their only son in a comfortable apartment in Eastern Tokyo. Home when he ran away at 17, a loft shared with 2 other boys, 1 of whom Shogo soon after laid in pieces down the stairs. A couch at an older man's house, exchanged for what amounted to an assassination on his boss, a room with Mr. Senguji...his home with Choe.. 

Well. Now home was the dormitory floor at the CID, 1200 square feet of bare brick and cold floors. But it had a door that locked, a bed, a bathroom separated from the world by more than a curtain. It had clothes that didn't have "Tokyo East Psychiatric Hospital" stamped on them. He had a tablet with (intensely limited) internet access, on which he had downloaded several free novels; he planned to use his first paycheck to begin collecting the real thing again. A Division 3 Enforcer had loaned him some of his horror novels, which he consumed voraciously, but he missed his literature and philosophy and fantasy. 

Well. He missed a lot of things, honestly.

)))(((

7 weeks went by before Shogo had any semblance of "working a case", and it certainly did not entail getting to run the streets of the city hunting down a former colleague. No, he was still left in the office while Division 1 went out, or placed under the supervision of another Divisions inspectors. Taking Makishima out, it seemed, had not yet been necessary, but that didn't mean Tsunemori or that darling former student of his didn't know where his talents lie.

"We know he's hiding out in this abolition block," Akane sighed tersely, laying out their latest case file for Shogo to look over, including a map of several apartment buildings and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. "Multiple witnesses saw him go in to a laundromat, but we were unable to find him. We're sure there's some kind of second exit, but we've been unable to-"

"No, not an exit, no," Shogo sighed, recognising the area immediately. "More like another entrance."

"Wanna be less vague, Makishima?" Asked Shimotsuki, and Shogo just smiled brightly at her.

"Not particularly, Mika-Chan."

Oh she was absolutely gonna paralyze him, fuck. Luckily for him, Tsunemori had a better head on her shoulders and got between them.

"Another entrance," she repeated, bringing Shogos attention back to her. "Tell me what that means."

Shogo sighed, taking a blue pen from his desk and uncapping it.

"The entire block is connected," he shrugged, making an X in a small corner of the laundromat. "Through tunnels and underground passages and hallways that look like closets. People started building them in the early and mid 90s, when Sibyl was first announced and being launched. People were terrified of this AI, and wanted a place to be safe."

"But building a place to escape Sibyl would mark someone immediately as being a latent criminal," Ginoza observed, playing it like Kougami and keeping his distance.

"And isn't it just poetic?" Shogo wanted to know, "how self fulfilling that is? You know in traditional Catholic doctrine there is a mental distress known as scruples, a funny name for a terrible affliction where someone is terrified that everything they do is a mortal sin, even if they live saintly lives. The upsetting thing is that some consider this anxiety itself a sin, since it doubts the mercy of Jesus."

"That's interesting, Makishima, now where do these tunnels go and how do we find them? Are they programmed holo or-"

"Oh far simpler than that," he said, turning the paper over to its blank side to sketch. With quick, clean lines, Shogo drew out a close up diagram of the laundromat, indicating dryer 26.

"This one has a false hook up," he explained. "The entire back opens up into a slanting chute. It's honestly terrifying to crawl inside this industrial machine, because you can't help but imagine the engine starting and the heat blasting on. You'll find most entrances though are practical and hidden like this, across most of the city. It reminds me quite a bit of-"

"H.H. Holmes."

Shogo looked up with a pounding heart and a hopeful smile.

"Indeed, Kougami, quite like his famous murder castle."

Kougami drew close to look at the diagram, so near that Shogo could smell his soap and cologne and it was an absolutely tantalizing bait.

"So then tell me, Makishima, you reign as king in the palace?"

"Of this particular one? No," Shogo answered. "Though I did stay for a few months when I was 17 and first left home. I had a lot to sort through, and the people who frequent those spots usually give each other a wide breadth."

Shinya scoffed, eyeing Shogo up and down and it took everything in Shogo not to openly preen.

"What, were you hunkering down to plan your first kill?"

"Oh hardly, Kougami. I made my first kill when I was 15. With my coloring people often assume I'm sickly and an easy target, expecially as a gangly teenager. He tried to mug me, I knocked his lights out, and one thing lead to another. My poor mother worried sick over me when I got home seeing all the blood."

"Your poor mother raised a monster."

"She raised someone with a severe mental illness, Kou, but I chose my path on my own, apart from my parenting or genetic predisposition-"

"Ok we can monologue about nurture vs nature another time, alright?" Tsunemori sighed, obviously done already with their shit for the day. And almost immediately the conversation turned back to the case, kougami going back to ignoreing Shogo entirely.

)))(((

Kougami did everything he could to avoid him, and Shogo expected as much. He was still so bitter over the death of Sasayama (who, by what Shogo could tell, was not all that remarkable of a man to begin with) and his outrage over Shogo's other supposed crimes, and it seemed to consume him more and more now that Shogo was around. Honestly it was entirely over dramatic to Shogo, the way he'd look pointedly across the room or at the floor, anywhere but at Shogo Makishima. How he took a separate lunch, begged to reschedule overlapping shifts. So juvenile, and it only made Shogo want Shinya's attention all the more. Funny. He use to consider himself immune to such desires, but 9 months of isolation could really fuck a man up, it seemed.

And fucked up he was. More than before, at least. Shogo startled more easily now, especially at loud voices. Nightmares took him once or twice a week when before he never dreamt and if he did, he rarely remembered. And then there were the medications. Still Sibyl's little voodoo doll, he took 6 pills a day, though at least most of these had actual names and supposed purposes. One to get him going in the morning, another to send him to sleep at night. A pill for anger, a pill for psychosis because apparently someone in charge didn't know the difference between psychosis and psychopathy. He was growing a bit more tolerant of them, having learned to take them with a heavier meal in his belly first, and their effects did not weigh on him as much as they had. His mind was growing sharper; it was his body that still lagged behind.

Every week those first three months was the same song and dance. 2 hours of therapy about as effective as a dog chasing its own tail. A blood test for his medication levels, a quick physical and weigh in. He'd gained back about 12 pounds but was still borderline underweight for his height, and nowhere near as strong as he once was. At least now he had some semblance of energy to try and remedy that. He clocked in probably 3 miles a day just running errands back and forth over the CID floor, and spent at least 2 hours every night doing yoga if he hadn't the strength for anything more ambitious. He sorely missed a sparring partner, and the chance for a good run. Of course, the gym...existed. 

He had tried it. Hell, he continued to try it. But it was not the most secure place to be. With the dayshift and night shift spread evenly, and everyone on a different workout schedule, it was always a gamble whether the gym would be empty or have 4 or 5 enforcers there at once, and Shogo was rather a persona non grata. Damn it, all he wanted was some time alone on the treadmill, ten minutes at a brisk jog was about all he could do any more, but that exertion left him panting and flushed and looking like easy prey. Huh. Shogo never thought he would be seen by anyone as easy prey, but looking at his workmates he knew, over half of them could beat him in this current condition.

Still tried, though. Once or twice a week, usually in the predawn hours, he would try to sneak in, peer around for company before deciding whether to brave it or not. Sometimes he could make it the whole time alone. 

Tonight was not one of those nights.

He'd barely started a warm up before he heard the door open, letting in a pair, a division 4 inspector and one of his older enforcers. Usually seeing an inspector around would be a calming image for Shogo, but this particular one was of the firm belief that roughing up someone who deserves it was quite cathartic and would be beneficial to a clouded hue. And it so happened that most saw Shogo as most deserving of a little abuse. Honestly Shogo couldn't fault them here. He was their enemy, after all, and this was war. Didn't make it any easier though when he had to remember he had no means of protecting himself. This was an inspector, one of his handlers even if from another division. In essence, his owner…

"Ah, Makishima," the inspector grinned, eyes widening, and Shogo only nodded over his shoulder, keeping his attention on the treadmill in front of him, pretending to care about the numbers when really he only cared about not falling flat on his god damned face. Fucking 4km an hour and he was at his fucking limit.

And then the belt stopped, lurching him forward, and he did indeed nearly smack his face onto the machines front, barely catching himself in time.

"What-?" He asked, looking around for the source of his troubles and finding, of course, his guests, the cord dangling from the enforcers hand. Inspector Hikari stood nearby, turned away just enough to have deniability.

...At least it was seldom very rough. A fist in his hair, a slap across his face, some derogatory words about his appearance, a gross sexual remark. Nothing he couldn't handle physically. It was just the feeling of powerlessness it left him with that was most difficult to handle. And it wasn't that he didn't try to fight; may it be known that Shogo Makishima was no one's ready and easy victim...but he could not fend off one grown man in this state, let alone two, despite his best efforts.

And then the door opened again, and he prepared himself for a third to join in the fun-

"Hardly becoming behavior for an Inspector, Hikari."

Well, how delightful. Shinya usually preferred to work out alone in his dorm unless he was wanting to use the sparring unit, and Shogo had thus far not had the pleasure of crossing paths. Dropping his duffle back casually by a weight bench, Shinya strolled towards the small group, the enforcer backing down quietly but the inspector not threatened at all.

"Enforcer Kougami, I don't think it wise for you to question a superiors behavior," he warned evenly, but Shinya only grinned.

"Perhaps not, but I prefer to think of myself as more clever than wise."

"More like a smart ass," Hikari groused, and he took a sideways look at Shogo, leaning heavily to the arm of the treadmill, his cheek sore; he wondered if he'd be sporting a fresh black eye by tomorrow.

"...just watch your mouth, Kougami. You're on nearly as thin ice as this one," the inspector warned, grabbing his own gear and inviting his enforcer to the other end of the room for free weights instead. 50 feet distance between them was enough to let Shogo breathe, and offer up a delighted smile to Kou.

"Impeccable timing, Shinya," he said, trying to catch his breath. Not terribly easy in his state. "Your assistance is appreciated -"

And he was already back at the door, grabbing his bag, and heading off to the mat to start up the sparring drone.

Shogo was by far not stupid nor a man given over to fantasy or delusion, but he couldn't help but mentally mark the fact that Shinya had no reason to stay. Sure his ridiculous need to cling to social morals migh compel him to step in and prevent Shogo from getting beaten or assaulted, if for no other reason than he didn't want anyone else fucking with his pet peeve, but Shogo could think of very little that could compel Shinya to stay after the boogeyman had been tamed. Did he need this particular night in his workout routine so badly? Was he coming around to accept that he had to share oxygen with Shogo? Or perhaps some part of him, however small, worried what could happen should he leave again so soon…

Ah, there he was again, losing himself in daydreams.


End file.
